


It's an old song.

by murg



Category: Splatoon
Genre: Domestic, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Non-Chronological, Pearl (Splatoon) Swears, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, post-DLC, thanks for the fun years splatoon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19382935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murg/pseuds/murg
Summary: Promised Lands aren’t perfect.





	It's an old song.

There’s rain, here. Water, from above. He thought he was done with water from above, but Promised Lands aren’t perfect. It has a leaky roof, though it doesn’t seem to bother anybody who lives here.

Agent 3 is wearing a poncho when she meets him by his door, fingers wrapped around a closed umbrella. It doesn’t shoot anything; it’s meant to be held over her head like a small roof to keep the rain out. There are many roofs, in the Promised Land. That is how he understands it, at least.

There’s a roof over his head, now, and a roof above that roof. His roof is someone else’s floor. Pearl sent him here. It’s an apartment. She said her dad will pay for it, until he starts making money. _Could get a job at Grizzco,_ she had said. _If you don’t mind losing a finger or two to a Smallfry, that is._

He pulls his jacket off the wall hanger and zips it up to his neck.

Down the stairs, together, and onto the street. Water soaks into the edge of his boot. Agent 3 unfurls her umbrella, holding it above them. He has to walk closer to her, to avoid the rain. Such a small roof.

Clothes still feel weird, he thinks, his boots squelching. An uncomfortable, errant thought. They wear all sorts of clothes in the Promised Land. Clothes are on every billboard, advertisements and diatribes plastered to telephone poles. Fashion manifestos, Marina had called them. They’re small enough to fit on a single sheet of paper. Annaki, mostly.

Agent 3 adjusts the umbrella, coughing. He feels wrong, when he looks at her. He can’t explain what that means. His own emotions are inaccessible to him. He just knows he doesn’t like it. He’s disturbingly aware of their differences--different eyes, different skin, different hands. She moves a lot, when she talks. She has different teeth than him. Everyone has different teeth than him, here.

He keeps expecting to wake up one morning, looking just like everyone else who lives in the Promised Land. He hasn’t, yet.

“Just a few more blocks,” she says. She says this, every time. It’s a twenty-minute walk. It could be five. She takes the long way, to avoid Inkopolis Square. She doesn’t want him to see the SquidForce arena. He isn’t sure why, but he overheard Marina and Pearl discussing it, a few weeks ago, back when he was still sleeping on Marina’s couch.

 _There’s, like, easier options than Grizzco, of course,_ Pearl had said during dinner, that night. _You know, if you wanted to put your ‘skills’ to use._ But Marina had nudged her, and she fell quiet. He didn’t ask her to explain. He knows not to ask questions.

“You going to get your usual?” Agent 3 asks. Her voice is so quiet, it’s hard to hear over the water falling on the ground.

“My usual,” he echoes, the taste of Inkling words still foreign. He speaks it, poorly, and he doesn’t know why or how he does. It’s dissonant, nasal, awkward.

“I guess it’s not really a ‘usual’ if you’ve only been a few times.”

He stutters out some sound. He doesn’t know what he was going to reply with, anyways. Agent 3 doesn’t look at him. People pass them, on the street, and no one looks at him. This is the Promised Land.

 _I honestly can’t tell the difference,_ Pearl had said. _I’m not saying that to sound super accepting or whatever. I don’t care about that. I’m honest. I don’t really see the difference. So we got separate faces. So does everyone. Who cares?_

He’s wearing old clothes, flannel hoodie and black boots. Pearl pulled them out of her closet. Pearl has a lot of clothes. So does everyone, apparently. Agent 3 and he pass people with hats and face masks, and he envies them. He wishes he could wear something to cover his face. He clenches his fists, fabric rubbing against his palms. It’s soft, worn out.

Twenty-minute walk, when it could be five.

He doesn’t question it.

The coffeeshop is coming up, on their right. Agent 3’s elbow brushes against him as she moves away from a particularly aggressive squid passing them.

He shivers.

\- - -

He had the dream again, last night. The violent dream, with the music. Underwater music, banshee harmonies. Twin sirens, with wide mouths. 

“I don’t know your name,” he says, water in his mouth.

“You don’t need to,” one sniffs, spilling oceans onto him. “You don’t even know your own name. Why should you know mine?”

She drowns him.

\- - -

Agent 3 rattles of some long string of words, meant to compose a coffee order. The barista writes it on a cup without missing a beat.

“I get the same thing,” he says to her, hushed. "Please."

“You sure?” She looks at him, eyes shifting from his eyes to his chest and back up. He feels gross, oozing, at the inspection. His fingers and lips tremble, thinking about her eyes on him. “It’s really sweet,” she warns.

“Sure,” he whispers, pulse hiccuping.

“Make that two.” She holds up her hand.

The barista makes a noise of confirmation, and asks for their names.

His voice is trapped in his throat, brittle and frightened.

“’Three,’ for both,” she says.

He watches her pay, feeling a crushing pressure behind his eyes. Everything feels distant and fuzzy, like he’s still in the Deep Sea.

“Come on.” She grabs his hand in a loose hold and tugs him away.

\- - -

 _Love is stupid,_ Pearl had said to him, while drying his face with a towel. _There’s no point in deciding if something is love, okay? What matters is what you do, and how you know you feel. In the moment. No need to slap a label on everything, that’s what I think. Turn around._

He turned around. The towel burned, scraping at his back and arms. He felt boneless and tired, filled with an unpleasantness he couldn’t name. And gratitude.

_Anyways, I don’t want to freak you out with my problems, you know? I’m just talking, just saying bullshit. I say a lot of bullshit, but Marina puts up with it for some reason. Hell, you put up with it, too._

Not bullshit, he had mumbled.

_What’s that?_

He didn’t think she was bullshit.

_Pft, I mean, thanks. But it’s okay to say bullshit, sometimes. Right? I think it is. We all say bullshit. It’s just part of being a person. No shame in that._

Being a person. He stared at the wall, his shins sliding over each other clumsily.

Mm.

\- - -

He woke up, choking on air. Choking, choking. That dream, it burned as it sunk him. Her eyes had been so cold. He didn’t deserve that, he didn’t deserve even that modicum of care.

That song. So crushing, haunting, haunted.

He didn’t know her name. He wiped his face, hand coming back wet. He didn’t know if it was sweat or tears or spit. He didn’t care, either way.

Agent 3 would be coming over, this morning.

He needed to get ready for her.

He felt filthy.

Her eyes on him, teeth flashing. Her disdain, her disgust. He was nothing but a speck of dirt. He didn’t even have a name.

What is it, to have no name?

\- - -

They sit at a small table by the window, between overcrowded booths filled with excitable squids and jellyfish. Some boys are yelling, endorphins running from a close League match. Rainmaker rotation.

Agent 3 taps on the table, looking at him openly. He tries to tune the raucous laughter out. She avoids the SquidForce arena with him; he assumes she doesn’t want him to acknowledge anyone who frequents it.

“Has Pearl checked on you, lately?” she asks.

He clears his throat. “She, ah. Came by, the yesterday.”

She nods.

“With more clothings.”

“Okay, cool. We should take you shopping sometime, though. She’s got more clothes than she knows what to do with, but you two are also definitely not the same size.”

“Shirt fits,” he mumbles.

“It’s actually pretty big on you. I guess it’s lucky that she likes wearing children’s XLs for tops.”

He doesn’t know what a 'children’s XLs' is. It’s probably better not to comment on it. He hums absently.

“Uh. And, you know, have you seen Marina?”

“Some.”

“Yeah, she’s probably busy, huh?”

“I don’t know. She and I isn’t very...close?”

Agent 3 nods, tapping at the table again. She’s tapping out a rhythm, but he can’t read it. It’s too loud, anyways. The boys are very loud. Rainmaker rotation, with a half-assed Charger backing up the opposing side. _Who uses a Charger in Rainmaker? Only good Chargers should be in Rainmaker._ _One shot, one kill,_ a boy barks. _Bam! Splat!_

He realizes his hand is shaking. He slides it under the table.

\- - -

 _Listen._ Pearl scrunched the towel between her hands. _Listen, uh. You okay with Agent 3 coming over? She’s been asking about you._

Who?

_Agent 3, your inkling girl friend._

He didn’t know what to say. He had no preference. He’s never preferred anything, but Pearl and Marina were always asking him about it. Do you want to eat in or grab some Crusty Sean’s? Do you like this cobalt shirt or this salmon shirt? Do you like Chirpy Chirps or Wet Floor better?

He shrugged.

_She’s a cute girl, right?_

He rubbed his eyes, feeling his shoulders tense. That was a trap, and he didn’t appreciate it.

_Don’t mind me. Like I said, I say bullshit all the time. I don’t really got a filter, you know? Marina would be yelling at me, if she knew I said that to you, haha._

‘s fine, he mumbled.

If Agent 3 were to come over, he knew he’d be looking at the floor. He had no idea if she was ‘cute.’ He didn’t want to know, either. That stuff was...aberrant. Him, looking at her like that. It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t just her, either. It wasn’t exclusive to her. He never knew how to look at anyone, did he? So it had nothing to do with her at all.

He felt...wrong, looking at her. It wasn’t anything he examined, however. He knew not to ask questions. He knows not to question things.

\- - -

“Three,” a voice calls over the crowd.

\- - -

_Hey, don’t worry about things so much. Chin up and all that. I was just shooting the shit, don’t mind me. You’re only a kid, you know?_

He didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t know, he wanted to say. What constituted a kid, what constituted an adult. Was it numbers, or was it experience? Numbers were arbitrary. Pearl was smaller than him, crass, flighty, impulsive. She was an adult, but he was a kid.

Marina was bigger than either of them, but younger than Pearl. Was Pearl more adult than Marina, the one who did the dishes? He wasn’t sure. But he was just a kid, apparently. His hands balled up in his lap, strong and ready. He had ugly, uncomfortable thoughts of all the things he could do with his hands. All the things he had done with his hands.

He didn’t feel like a kid. He’d hefted scoped Chargers his size into firing position, sat in freezing cold for hours waiting for a mark. It was all slimy and hard to grasp in his mind, but the physical memory never left. Could Pearl and Marina see? Could they smell it on him, the things he couldn’t remember? Could Agent 3 tell?

 _Water under the bridge,_ Pearl said.

What? He shook his head, blinking.

She shrugged. _I don’t know. Just saying words._

Mm. He didn’t understand it, but he’d rather not think about water.

 _That’s how I make new song lyrics,_ she continued. _Just saying words, seeing what sticks. Marina’s way more methodical, but I guess she’s that way about everything, huh?_

He shrugged. He didn’t really know Marina that well.

Marina always spoke to him with uncertainty. She didn’t know how to approach him. He wondered how she came here. He wondered if she missed certain things, from below. He thought he did, but he wasn’t sure what. He didn’t remember anything, except a fuzzy song.

He might have been homesick. But he also never wanted to go back.

It’s a strange thing, isn’t it?

\- - -

The boys settle into their seats better. They must have gotten their drinks. It’s quieter. Easier in some ways, harder in others. He tries not to focus on any noise.

Agent 3 slides back into her chair, two cups in her hands. “Here,” she says, handing one to him.

He slides his hands over it, thumb over the number ‘3.’

The radio kicks his brain into a frenzy when the first three notes leak into the crowded room. It’s...

Ah. It’s...

“Hey,” Agent 3 says, cocking her head.

He blinks. The music is pounding in his veins. He feels like he’s vibrating. “This is...”

“It’s a new song.”

“S-Squid Sisters?”

Agent 3 fiddles with her coffee cup, eyes darting away. “Um. Yeah. It’s their new single. ‘Fresh Start’? I think.”

He taps at the table, taking a few breaths. “You know the Squid Sisters?”

“Sure, I know about them,” she says, guarded.

“Oh.” He doesn’t want to upset her, and he doesn’t want to ask for too much. He never wants to ask for too much.

“Why?”

He stares at the table. “I just heared of them.”

“Everyone has. They’re the biggest celebrities in the world.”

“Right.”

“They have them in the Deep Sea?”

“No,” he says.

“Right.” She’s watching him with sharp eyes, he realizes, his gut twisting. “No one’s heard of the Squid Sisters, down there.”

He licks his lips.

“So,” she says, taking a sip from her coffee, “do you have any plans for the weekend?”

“It’s in the weekend?”

“Yeah. It’s Saturday.”

“Um. No.”

“Maybe we could go out,” she says. “I could show you around some old haunts of mine.”

He hesitates, thinking about people’s eyes. He really doesn’t want to go out, he realizes. He wants to lie in his bed and rot. “Sure.”

“Hey, don’t worry.”

He looks up. “Huh?”

“I’ll protect you,” she says. A shiver snakes down his spine. He can’t tell if it’s dread or relief. He can’t tell what he’s feeling, ever. There’s no point. He’s going to throw up. He’s going to throw up, right on the table. Right over her brand new Rockenbergs. “That’s what I do, I protect people. Okay? You’re my friend, and I won’t let people treat you like garbage. You’re a citizen, here. You can go wherever you want.”

“Okay,” he whispers, feeling faint.

She pats his shoulder, brusque and familial. “So don’t worry. If you ever get scared, just call me. I always pick up.”

He blinks at her. She offers a smile, a fang peeking out from her upper lip. He blinks again. His eyes hurt. He doesn’t know why.

“We’ll go out tomorrow.” She says it like it’s a promise.

He takes a drink from his coffee, thinking about drowning. “Ah.” He blinks. “It really _is_ sweet.”

\- - -

Watching Pearl and Marina kiss, he felt a twinge in his gut. Like a gross muscle spasm. He swallowed spit. He felt empty, hollowed out. Absent.

\- - -

He has a dream about Agent 3, that night. She's speaking in his language, but he can’t understand her. She says divorced words, detached from meaning.

Rising, he can hear the Squid Sisters. That happens in every dream. They’re untouchable pop stars, with perfect faces. He saw a poster of them in the Inkopolis center. They’re beautiful. He isn’t.

Agent 3 is the same Agent 3 who takes him to the coffee shop. The same Agent 3 who knocks on his apartment door, the same Agent 3 who is willing to walk 25 minutes to make sure he’s comfortable. She holds out her hand. Her fingers don’t look like his fingers. _You’re my friend._

“I don’t have any friends,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m meat, meant to be chopped up and blended into a slurry for better gods.”

Agent 3 speaks and the Squid Sisters begin their banshee screams. The song that tastes like old coffee on his gums. The song that he can’t brush out of his mouth, always on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m not--”

“Bullshit,” Pearl’s voice, a memory, smacks him. He closes his eyes as the sirens scree.

“You don’t even have a name,” one sister chortles.

Agent 3 says something but he can’t understand her. What’s the purpose of language, if it’s always misunderstood? He’s feeble and horrible. _You’re my friend._

“I just try new stuff until something sticks,” Pearl says. “I never know where I’m going. I’m chaotic, like that. I'm lucky Marina balances me out. It’s nice, to have people you can depend on.”

He’s scared.

It’s a stale song, trapped in his head. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, they will go out together. He’s allowed to walk outside, like anyone else. It’s okay. She’ll be with him. He just has to call. The song thrums like a dull ache in his veins, insidious and misinterpreted. He doesn’t really know what the song is about, does he? Not really.

It’s just a song, anyways.

Agent 3 speaks in gibberish, but he can read her eyes. They’re kind eyes.

He takes a deep breath and he reaches out.

 

 

 


End file.
